


the sword in the darkness

by serpentess22



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Depression, F/M, Mild Sexual Content, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, R plus L equals J, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-01 20:38:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 3,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serpentess22/pseuds/serpentess22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>INDEFINITELY ON HIATUS.</p><p>{a collection of drabbles featuring my favourite character in asoiaf, jon snow, and little vignettes from what I imagine is, could be or should be his life.}</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. rough

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Every character and anything in the world of A Song of Ice and Fire mentioned belongs to George R. R. Martin. I own nothing except the writing.
> 
> This was originally posted on FF.net (https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9750872/1/the-sword-in-the-darkness) but I'm in the process of posting it here. You can check it out over there if you like, although I'm reshuffling the order of the chapters here. I'll warn you, re-posting here will be somewhat slow. 
> 
> Anyway, on to the fic. I put this chapter first because it was one of my favourites. It has faint hints of the book/movie Atonement by Ian McEwan.

* * *

1\. rough

* * *

 

Ygritte pulls him close to her, her hands curled into the fabric of his shirt, her breath hot and laboured on the skin of his neck. Jon rests his cheek on her head, closes his eyes to engrave the feel of her against him in his brain, one of his hands fisting in her hair and the other holding her to him. He tries to breathe evenly, and fails at that.

"You know I have to leave," he says, feeling the ache in his heart pulse hard at that. He wants to drown in her, in her presence and the feel of her and the fire of her hair, to forget.  _I'll come back to you, I always will,_ he wants to say, but the lie lodges in his throat like bone and debris, and she has never been one for taking assurances and promises.

"I know," she replies, and pulls her face away to stare at him, her blue-gray eyes hard and angry in the half-darkness of the room. "I  _know_ ," she repeats, her voice hitching on the last word. She untangles her hands from his shirt, sliding them into his hair, pulling him down, and kisses him hard, forcefully, her tongue mapping his lower lip. He kisses her back, tightens his grip on her waist, pushes her to the wall and hitches her leg around his hip, filling his senses with her, as they drown in the black.


	2. anger

 

* * *

2\. anger

* * *

Jon did not register the ache in his fists as the red was in his vision, and in his head, chanting and chanting a terrible, unintelligible string of words, and the fury was great and big inside him. He drove his fist over and over into Theon's face, and felt a blaze of satisfaction as he heard the hard  _crunch_  of a nose and the screech of pain. It was only when someone wrapped their arms around his and around him and pulled him hard, back, when he saw the blood, the crimson, all over Theon's face and staining his shirt and heard the desperate gasps and groans, and Jon felt a flush of shame but refused to banish the anger from his face, refused to wash it from his veins. He had enough, of Theon Greyjoy's smirks and snide remarks, of Lady Catelyn's hard eyes, of every uppity visitor's refusal to associate themselves with  _the Lord of Winterfell's bastard,_ the only dirty smear on his father's honour.

"My mother was not a whore," he heard himself say, even though he did not know,  _he did not know_ , and suddenly the anger was pain and agony and betrayal all at once and he could not take it anymore. He tore himself from Robb's grasp and stalked away, he heard Arya's wails from her perch in Lady Stark's arms but he ignored her, ignored everybody's disapproving frowns; he wanted to be alone for once, before his father heard of this.


	3. grass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that this chapter has absolutely nothing to do with grass, but, oh well.

* * *

3\. grass

* * *

Little Arya giggled, waving her tiny fists at him as Jon smiled, gently bumping his head with hers and making silly faces with her. Her gray eyes, so similar to his own, shone brightly at him and her lips stretched into a huge grin, and the bubbly chortle that escaped her mouth made him feel queerly warm.

She was a demanding, uncooperative babe with almost everyone ever since she was born, except with Jon. Perhaps it was because the two of them were the only ones that looked so much like their father, but he'd never cared to reason it out much. It just felt so good to be someone's favourite, so good to feel that warm feeling in his chest that made him so grin widely, that Jon thought that it outpaced the sting of the servants' bemused sidelong glances, Sansa's jealousy at not being to get near her sister without her fussing, and Lady Catelyn's scowling expressions whenever she saw them playing together.


	4. breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It struck me that we didn't see Jon's immediate reaction to the Red Wedding, so, this was how I pictured it, I guess. This is set sometime before Jon gets chosen as Lord Commander and before Sam goes to put his plots in action.

 

* * *

 4. breathe

* * *

The sound of his breaths is loud in the darkness of the room, and all Jon can think of is how he is alive and they are not.

Ghost watches warily from a corner of the room as he smacks his fist into the wall in front of him, again and again, tears blurring his vision. He remembers how he and Robb used to play in Winterfell as children, without a care in the world, he remembers when their father used to sit down with both of them to give in to their demands for a story of his own rather than Old Nan's, and he remembers every time they snuck away from Lady Catelyn's judgemental eyes, laughing and grinning. Most of all, he remembers when they said goodbye for the last time, never knowing the world they knew would dissolve into chaos.

When his knuckles are bruised and his hands are aching and when his arms feel spent, he slides down to the floor, Ghost pads silently over to him and nudges at his face, licking the tears off his scarred cheeks. Jon buries his hands into his thick white fur, pulling him close, and wonders if he has anything left to lose.


	5. kettle

* * *

5\. kettle

* * *

The kettle made a soft tinker, and Jon walked over to the counter, distractedly taking the mugs along with him. He yawned, rubbing a hand over his face before warily glancing around the kitchen once more – it was strange, Ygritte usually crept in the room around this time, always surprising him every time she did it – before he poured the hot tea into his mug, watching the steam flutter upwards and away, dissolving into the air of the apartment.

He figured that she was probably worn out from last night, just as he was. A hot flush crept up his neck as he remembered how late they'd stayed up, and how, after, he'd absently wondered whether all the noise they made would wake up the neighbours, but couldn't bring himself to care, simply reaching for her again, where she lay across the bed.

He didn't realize that his mug was overflowing with tea until he felt the sharp sting of boiling liquid touch the hand that wasn't holding the kettle, and he cursed, hissing sharply, putting back the pot back on the stove before he did any more damage. He sucked the hurt fingers hard, thinking that he should probably get some ice, but he couldn't be bothered. Clumsily, he wiped off the counter, and reached for the kettle again, filling Ygritte's cup, before carrying it slowly to their room to wake her up, fingers still throbbing.

When he set the cup down on their bedside table, he saw her move, and turn under the blankets, looking up blearily at him, her eyes half-lidded. And when she smiled at the sight of him, he felt himself stir again, and he forgot about his damned fingers.


	6. stay

* * *

6\. stay

* * *

"You still keep that crow cloak o' yours."

Jon glanced up, and saw Ygritte staring at him with an unreadable look in her eyes. He swallowed, hesitating. "I do." He looked away, pulling his fingers through his hair and closing his eyes, haunted by the brothers he'd left behind. But he had a home here too, by her side.

He heard her walk over to him, her steps slow but steady, weighed down by the weight of his – of her – of their child, small and safe and snug in his mother's womb. She sat down, taking his jaw into her hand, forcing his face towards hers and kissing him hard for a few moments, before pulling back. She said nothing, simply staring at him, flitting her eyes over his features like she'd been doing a lot lately, as if he were going to leave her.

He wasn't.  _You're mine, as I'm yours. And if we die, we die. All men must die, Jon Snow. But first, we'll live,_  she'd said.  _Yes. First we'll live,_  he'd said. That was a promise; one he intended to keep.


	7. green

* * *

7\. green

* * *

Its scales glittered, bright and shining, intensified by the glow of the sun above. A deep, luxurious, dark shade of green and bronze, it was perhaps the most beautiful creature out of his aunt's dragons, or so he thought.

Rhaegal's wary, burnished eyes turned slowly to him as Jon approached with slow, cautious steps, his body flushed with the aura of heat coming off from the dragon, his mouth dry, his palms cold and damp and sweating, and his veins thrumming with some strange, underlying, triumphant feeling that he couldn't get a name out of. He licked his lips, still continuing his walk, and he thought, as he laid his hand on the dragon's snout and when it pressed its nose into his touch,  _maybe this feels like belonging, like coming to a home you never even knew existed._


	8. fire

* * *

8\. fire

* * *

_Fire and blood_.

Jon remembered the Targaryen words as he stood stoically in wait, his eyes fixed upwards on the huge black figure on the horizon, with the slight golden-haired form on its back. After months of dreaming of restless flying over a city that must be King's Landing and the news of Targaryen claimants in the South, his aunt's arrival was no real surprise. He did not know whether or not she  _knew_  that he was her nephew, or that her green dragon would be his, but that was of no consequence. He was the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and that would not change.

When the wind around him buffeted and his brothers drew their breaths in sharply at the sight of the creature alighting on the ground, Daenerys Targaryen descended, sliding down from her dragon in one smooth move. Her eyes were violet and cool, her poise proud and expectant. She was younger than he, he suddenly remembered. Jon knelt, his men following.

"Your Grace." His voice sounded distant and cold.

She walked over to him, and her black dragon's eyes followed her path, the red as threatening as they were fathomless. Her hair fluttered behind her was she strode over, and her eyes were wary and surprised. "Nephew," she returned. "You are not… what I expected."

"No, Your Grace."  _I'm not a Stark_ , he remembered that he had said that a long time ago _._   _I am not Targaryen either, though._ His mouth twisted, and he stood, towering over her. "May I ask the purpose of this visit?"


	9. familiar

* * *

9\. familiar

* * *

"Ygritte, where is my sword?" Jon says, frowning as he fumbles through their messy pile of furs and possessions, all mixed up together, as was their new custom. Tossing their things together beside their sleeping furs had become as familiar as her touch and her voice, and he fears that she has become  _too_  familiar, but he has become used to avoiding his doubts and telling himself that he would think about it another day.

He looks up at her when she sits down next to him, shrugging. "Might be you left it in Mance's tent earlier," she says, glancing away from him as Ghost approaches them, and runs her fingers through his white fur when Ghost curls up between them in a smooth, lazy movement, and lays his head on his paws. Jon places his hand on Ghost's back, and touches Ygritte's fingers, forgets about Longclaw in favour of appreciating the languor of their position.


	10. crow

* * *

10\. crow

* * *

The bird was large, battered and old, and it ruffled its wings again, fluffing its black feathers, and squawked rather loudly as it perched near to his bed. He had lost count of how many times it had woken him up in the mornings by flying in his face or cawing right next to his ear or whatever methods it could think of, and for a while he wondered how long Mormont's bird would live after Jon himself died, perhaps today or in a fortnight or years after this.

" _Snow_ ," it called to him, moving on the perch. " _Snow, Snow._ "


	11. son

* * *

11\. son

* * *

"Let me see 'im," Ygritte demands, her voice strained and her face flushed with exhaustion. "Let me see 'im, or I'll gut the lot of you 'soon as I get up."

Val hands over the wailing baby with a smile, ignoring the midwife's clucks of disapproval. Jon watches, an unidentifiable feeling rising in his chest, as Ygritte nurses their son, touching his small face and his fingers and his inexplicably tiny feet, and finds himself forgetting his anxiety and previous worries and the ache from his still-throbbing fingers where Ygritte had clutched at him through the birth whilst screaming all sorts of threats to his person. He sets himself behind her on the makeshift bed and touches her tenderly, and he still can't believe it when he takes their child into his arms and holds his head gently. He notices the way the shape of his son's eyes are the exact same as their mother's, slides his fingers over the tiny tufts of hair that are as dark as his own curls, and smiles when he waves his little fists, trying to reach upwards.

"Well," Ygritte says, watching Jon and curling into his side with a tired sigh, "if you'll be wanting another o' those whelps, you'll have to wait a long while, Jon Snow."


	12. live

* * *

12\. live

* * *

"No, no, Arya,  _no_ ," he chants, a frenzied prayer, his breath rising in faint clouds in front of his face even in the room, his heart beating much too fast, frantically snatching more blankets to tuck around her limp body and clutching her wrist, searching for a pulse. It's there, but faint, much too faint, and he can barely feel it under his numb fingers. Melisandre stands to the side, watching, always watching, but doing nothing, and Sam is shouting for more firewood to make the room warmer, his voice panicked and nervous.

Jon's senses dim and his focus on the room dwindles, and he begs his little sister to wake up.  _Don't die on me_ , he hears himself say.  _Live, Arya. Live for me, live for Sansa, for taking back Winterfell, most of all, yourself. Wake up. Please._

She's different and grown, her face gaunt and longer and her body malnourished, and he knows that she must be starved and weakened from the long journey to the Wall, and he does not know how she got here all by herself and avoided the dangers of capture other than her sheer, natural strength of will, or where she's been all these years, but he knows that he will wait by her bedside forever if it means that she will wake up.


	13. eyes

* * *

13\. eyes

* * *

Ygritte had wanted to see him. She knew that. She'd just wanted to get a glimpse of him, and survive the attack on Castle Black, and travel with her clansmen after while they took what was theirs. She just wanted a small glimpse of him, to see if he was all right, if the leg she'd shot was fine, if he was alive, because even though he'd left her in the end like she'd always feared he would, broke  _his_  promise to  _her_  in favour of his precious crow's vows, she was his, and he was hers, no matter how far either of them were from each other. Or whatever they did.

Maybe, she'd thought, when they won, when the free folk prevailed, before they killed him, she'd speak to him. What she'd say if she had the chance, she didn't know. Maybe she wanted to ask him  _why._ Ask if he regretted it, leaving her, in any way. Kiss him one last time, get to actually say good-bye, and let him taste the salty tang of tears on her lips.

But, as it turned out, she was wrong this time.

And as she found herself lying on the snow, helpless and exposed, trying not to breathe in too hard as the pain ached in her chest, too weak to try and pull the arrow out and get up, she found her mind empty of thought. Idly, she wondered if she was going to die. She closed her eyes and felt the snow on her cheeks where tears had been long ago before they had dried up, but she opened them at the sound of heavy boots and a familiar lumbering step.  _There he is._ She wanted to laugh, suddenly. Laugh hard and deep and hysterically.  _You'll see a hundred castles,_ she heard him say, though a haze of misery that lingered between them _._ She'd wished that with all her heart, she had.

She touched his cheek, cupped it in her palm, when what she really wanted was to pull his face down and kiss him like she'd done a thousand times before.  _You know nothing, Jon Snow,_ she whispered, looking into his eyes, and she saw the agony in them. They were deep and full of secrets and mysteries she'd tried her best to unravel every night they had spent under their furs, and failed at, though perhaps in another life she might have succeeded.


	14. cold

* * *

14\. cold

* * *

The cold chills his skin, seeps down into the layers deep down to grasp his bones in its claws, and pulls, pulls away what was left of the warmth in his body. He does not remember what it is to feel warm anymore; though sometimes, he catches fragments of memories that show him what it was like, of sunny days and laughter and free movement, although he finds them hard to believe, he admits. He remembers Ygritte, though, and he tries his hardest to picture her and feel her: the heart of her, inflaming him and freeing him, and her touch, her fingers on his face, on his chest, in his hair, on his shoulders and everywhere, all over him.

The memories are like detached pieces of rope, floating within his reach and ready for him to take but he cannot reach for them, cannot feel the rough feel of the string beneath his fingers, and they warn him of a sting, of scabs and reopening wounds, so he avoids the thought of her, of anything or anyone, of everybody he has lost and can never find again. He ignores the ropes, and continues his fruitless stare across the Wall, letting the cold wind pull at his coat, try to pull him down. His feet remain firmly planted on the ground, though, and his gaze roams, his stare empty.


	15. death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the lack of updates recently; there was a family emergency that kept me busy, and the past few days have been pretty hectic. So, because of that, I'll have to postpone my due date for finishing this fic to maybe the end of next February/March.

* * *

38\. death

* * *

Jon crouches down by one of the piles of rubble and dust, curls his hands through the mess and makes a fist before bringing his hand up, letting the debris thread through his fingers. He feels an ache in his chest ( _they_ did this, wrecked his home), and feels tears drawn up from the depths of throat, pooling in his eyes, but tries to conceal them. He remembers Robb's joyful yells, mixed with his own; remembers Arya's bright grin, her eyes gleaming mischievously, her hands pulling at his, impatiently tugging and telling him to follow her; he remembers watching Bran climb those stone walls as easily as any of them walked, telling him to be careful before hearing Bran laugh, shaking his head at him, ludicrous ( _"I never fall, Jon!"_ he'd said, and in the end he was pushed, and never really fell); he remembers sitting by his father quietly as he sat in the godswood, cleaning Longclaw; he remembers all of that, and thinks, as he lifts his gaze from the ground, _this is not our home anymore._ (It's just a wreck of broken memories.)


End file.
